


Still Here

by Foxglove_Fiction



Category: Doctor Strange (2016), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017)
Genre: Angst, Avengers: Endgame (Movie) Compliant, Avengers: Endgame (Movie) Spoilers, Coping with Death, Depression, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Hopeful Ending, M/M, Mentions of Pepperony, Past Character Death, Pining, Post-Avengers: Endgame (Movie)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-21
Updated: 2019-05-21
Packaged: 2020-03-09 08:22:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18913168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Foxglove_Fiction/pseuds/Foxglove_Fiction
Summary: Avengers: Endgame Spoilers; Fic is Avengers Endgame compliant!It's never easy to lose a loved one. It's even harder to lose a loved one you've spent lifetimes with, while never being able to express the extent of your feelings.





	Still Here

* * *

 

 

_Every night I dream you’re still here_

_The ghost by my side, so perfectly clear._

_When I awake you’ll disappear_

_Back to the shadows with all I hold dear._

"Still Here” by Digital Daggers

 

* * *

 

One of the most familiar signs of depression that he’d always recognized was a desire to sleep and do little else.

No one would deny that he was depressed, but there was a lot more to it than that. Guilt weighed on him. Grief. Regret.

He knew - and he wished he hadn’t known. He wished he hadn’t had to make that call. He tried to find any other way, but in the end he knew how it had to be. There was only one way and Mordo’s voice seemed to taunt him every time he thought of it. It had been years ago not including the time that had passed in which he’d existed as nothingness - as a memory. As a ghost himself.

The first time he’d ever taken a life echoed agonizingly with this time. The conversation haunted him when he took any time at all to consider his situation.

_“Even if there’s another away?”_

_“There is no ‘other’ way.”_

_“You lack imagination.”_

_“No, Stephen._ You _lack a spine.”_

He wanted for all the world to curse the man. Curse him for being right. Curse him for being so callous. Curse him for having such an easy time of the concept of being at fault for someone’s death when Stephen weeks later still felt as though he couldn’t breathe and wanted nothing to do with his reflection, engulfed in hatred for himself for what he’d done even _knowing_ it was what had to happen. But there was _only one way_.

It wasn’t the lives of the dusted that he’d mourned - not then. Not even now. He mourned the lives of the soldiers that were lost in their battle with Thanos. He mourned the sorcerers who died before their shields could be erected to defend from the bombardment. He mourned Natasha’s sacrifice.

He mourned Tony, and the hundreds of thousands of possible hopes and dreams they’d shared. He mourned the man he’d known for lifetimes, the man he’d shared so many different futures with. He mourned falling in love and that he would live in a way no one else would or could ever possibly understand - because they were visions. Simply dreams of futures he had to discard for the sake of the future. Futures he’d sacrificed.

Wong would catch him lost in his own thoughts, trapped in memories under scalding water as though he could wash away his sins, knowing he couldn’t have done anything else. He tried to explain once, but Wong seemed to take it the wrong way - as guilt, as a love that was admiration, as regret, all of which were accurate but so very far away from what he battled with. Putting it into any other words aloud sounded selfish, as though he was still stuck in that same mindset of his own happiness being a priority.

As a master of the mystic arts he knew he’d done the only thing that was considered acceptable. As a doctor he’d done his best to save as many as he could. As a husband, lover, friend, best friend, and every other role he’d played in futures with Tony he’d never live he knew Tony would be proud of him - that he wouldn’t hold it against him… and that was the only reason sleep brought him such peace.

In those dreams he felt Tony’s fingers thread through his hair, soothing him as though wakefulness was a nightmare that kept him from getting any rest. He smelled coffee on the man’s breath and heard his warm voice uttering soft words of love.

In those dreams he could say it over and over - _I love you, Tony._ _I’m sorry I couldn’t give you back to your family. I’m sorry I put you on a path that would never bring you home. I’m sorry I couldn’t give you a better life. I’m sorry your daughter will grow up without you._

_I’m sorry we never had a chance. I’m sorry I killed you._

He never would have taken Tony from Pepper - he couldn’t have. Tony’s time with Pepper and Morgan meant everything to him in this timeline. He valued Tony’s happiness and the best he could hope to do was make certain that his family, his loved ones, would be safe and taken care of. But he denied that precious little girl of a loving, doting father who would have done anything for her - who _did_ everything he could for her, for Peter, for Pepper… for everyone.

He had no chance to say sorry to Tony though - not in this lifetime. Not ever. A part of him had felt wrong even being at Tony’s funeral so near to the friends Tony had known and valued. As much as he’d been grateful for the chance to be there he wondered if he’d have been accepted if they’d known the truth: he was guilty for Tony’s death.

“You’re not, though…” a warm voice tickled in the depths of his mind. “You need to forgive yourself.”

He’d fallen asleep then, to hear that voice and feel the comforting warmth of the tanned arms wrapped around him. An amalgamation of Tony, buried in millions of memories and composed by a desperate man.

“You’re not guilty. As convinced of it as you are, you’re not at fault. Don’t let us both die. Don’t linger in this.”

“I miss you…” He whispered to the memory, knowing better than to turn and attempt to see more than the arms he could see.

“Of course you miss me,” the other man teased with a soft chuckle. “Who wouldn’t miss me? I’m pretty awesome. But missing me can’t be the reason you miss out on the rest of your life.

“You can’t live in this dream, Stephen. There’s a whole world out there waiting for you, people who miss _you_ , people who _need_ you, and people who are waiting for the chance to love you. There’s so much more in the world for you still… experience it for me, would you?”

It was no different from most nights. He’d heard all of this before… of course he had. He’d conjured all of it in within weeks of Tony’s death. They’d had this conversation. He was sure it was what Tony would say - what the Tony he’d loved would have wanted for him.

He knew he had lifetimes worth of memories of Tony that everyone else had been denied, that he should be grateful for those - for the opportunity to watch Tony grow old with appalling elegance. He had thousands upon thousands of memories of waking up to the golden halo of sun on the man he’d fallen asleep with, and of the mischievous smile the man would give him when he was awake already and simply awaiting Stephen waking up. Of breakfasts and learning to cook together, and learning to _live_ together. He had memories of fights, of making up, of proposals and weddings…

He had sweet memories, and agonizing memories, but he had them and trying to make them line up with the reality he was living in was proving a challenging task. It wasn’t impossible of course, and slowly he was healing… but he felt guilty for that knowledge as well. He felt as though healing was somehow a betrayal of the love they’d shared so often regardless if he knew Tony would have disagreed.

_His_ Tony would have agreed… an imaginary Tony he’d never get that chance with.

Everything was still too raw and too fresh. Everything still ached, physically, mentally and emotionally. Everything felt wrong and the whole world felt it.

Vigils were held in every corner of the world - most in Tony’s name. Some places had lost their own heroes to the battle whom they praised and set up memorials for, but there was no way to walk out of the Sanctum or anywhere in New York without seeing the candles in various apartment windows, graffiti of Iron Man gracing walls, or even the man down the block who’d been spending several days painting a full mural of the man as commissioned by the shop’s owner.

There was no way to escape the fact that they were _all_ mourning. There was no place to look where he couldn’t see Tony’s face. He knew there were other people he should be focusing on and that there were others who needed him and even that others deserved his recognition - particularly the sorcerers he was meant to be guiding whose bodies were still slowly being recovered from the battlefield - but his mind circled thoughts of Tony like water around a drain, leaving him feeling lost, confused and unfocused.

 

* * *

 

“Doctor Strange?”

“Yes Peter?” A broken arm. A black-eye. This was about the worst he’d seen Peter in a while as the young man sat on a table, allowing the doctor to create a functional splint. Peter healed far too quickly to bother with a full cast which would have severely limited him in a variety of his ongoing tasks.

“Are you okay?”

Stephen looked up with some surprise at the injured teen. “I’m not the one injured and bleeding in the Sanctum.”

“No. But you don’t look okay. You don’t _seem_ okay.” Stephen gave a half-hearted smile at that, shaking his head and leaning back with a sigh. Was he that transparent today?

“I miss him too, you know?” The teen admitted after a few moments of silence. “I keep thinking there’s something more I could’ve done, or should’ve done.” The young hero leaned back in his spot, heaving a sigh and blowing at his unruly bangs a little. “But I don’t think Mister Stark would’ve wanted me to sit around blaming myself for what _more_ I could’ve done.”

When Stephen didn’t speak, focusing on his hands in silence, Peter shuffled in his spot and breathed a soft sigh.

“They had us read poems in class to help us deal with grief. A lot of people were… really struggling when everyone came back around. Some people still didn’t come back - I guess they died in other ways, not the snap - and I spent a long time looking at poems to find the right one for Mister Stark. Do you want to hear the poem I read to the class? I memorized it… I think Mister Stark would’ve liked it. I think… maybe it’ll help you.”

The sorcerer finally raised his gaze to look at boy finding an earnest sincerity and desire to help sitting plainly on the other’s face. He offered a small smile. “A poem, huh? It’s been a long time since someone read me a poem…” It took him a moment to process before he nodded.

Peter cleared his throat, looking slightly nervous about reciting something but not moving from his spot as he began. “Remember me when I am gone away, gone far away into the silent land; when you can no more hold me by the hand, nor I half turn to go yet turning stay. Remember me when no more day by day you tell me of our future that you planned: only remember me; you understand it will be late to counsel then or pray. Yet if you should forget me for a while and afterwards remember, do not grieve: for if the darkness and corruption leave a vestige of the thoughts that once I had, better by far you should forget and smile than that you should remember and be sad.”

It had been a long time since he’d heard that particular poem. “Remember, by Christina Rossetti… It’s a good choice,” He murmured softly, chewing on his lip for a moment. It had been a part of a book of funeral poems he’d been given after his sister’s death - the last stanza had always given him a sense of warmth and comfort.

“No one’s going to forget Mister Stark. But I don’t think he’d want us to be sad thinking about him. Not like this. Not for so long. He made a choice to save us all so that we could _live_ our lives… and if all we do is linger on the past and the could-haves and should-haves then we’re not really living, are we?” Peter kicked at the floor before offering a small smile to Stephen. “Eventually… we all have to move on, right? Live the lives he died so that we could have. Not just for him, but for _everyone_.”

“Thank you, Peter.”

A part of him hated that he was being given this kind of advice by someone as young as Peter - hated that Peter had this kind of maturity and insight. But then, he’d lost his parents, his uncle, and now Tony as well and was young enough to remember each of those periods of grieving.

It had been years since Stephen had lost someone like this. As much as the Ancient One had meant to him, this was different - he hadn’t _loved_ her the way he’d loved Tony.

“Do you want a hug, Doctor Strange?” That gave Stephen pause again as he looked up at the young man whose arms were spread wide, an entirely too understanding smile on his face.

“I…” He started to reject the idea before finding himself stopping short. “... you know? I think I could use a hug, thank you Peter.”

He didn’t have a chance to get to his feet. His head was pulled in against Peter’s chest, an arm wrapped around his shoulders and a hand settled on his head. “It’s okay, Doctor Strange. No one blames you. I’m sure Mister Stark doesn’t blame you either.”

“Stop that.”

“Stop what?” Peter inquired anxiously.

“Stop being so wise. You’re making me feel like you’re the adult in the room, and that just won’t do.”

“Well… how about you take me for some ice cream then? Will that even the playing field a little?”

It was a step in the right direction. Particularly so when his nod led to Peter patting his back and withdrawing to give him a wide, warm smile.

Everything still hurt leaving the Sanctum and seeing the man on the street painting a mural of Tony, and the candles in the windows lining the street. He could still hear the faintest hint of Tony’s voice in his head, but it was calm and content. And it was hard to ignore Peter’s enthusiasm as he drew Stephen’s attention away.

Things weren’t perfect. He wasn’t suddenly, magically better… but he was on a road to acceptance. They both were.

_They all were_. It was proof that they were still here.

**Author's Note:**

> Song - "Still Here" by Digital Daggers
> 
> Poem - "Remember" by Christina Rossetti
> 
> I'm literally coping with my own grief over his death and my sadness and recognition of what Stephen's going through. I'm sorry for this. I tried to give it a slightly less bleak ending than it might've had otherwise. I'm tired and stressed, and Stephen just deserves _peace and happiness okay??_


End file.
